Light
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock finds himself in a position where he needs to help John.  Requested fic.  John/Sherlock established relationship.
1. Chapter 1

The tube train stuttered to a halt and the power flickered once, twice, before failing altogether and plunging them into darkness. He caught himself quickly on the pole beside his seat as the inertia rocked him, instinctively pressing his legs against the shopping bag that was resting on the floor between his feet. He looked up – this was a bit useless, since it was completely dark – trying to figure out what had happened.

There was an immediate clamour of voices, most of them mirroring his own thoughts, demanding out loud to know what had happened, as though any of them had the answers. He waited for the lights and power to come back, almost certain this was a fleeting interruption, but the moment dragged on and the darkness stayed resolute.

There were people pulling out phones now, and he did so himself, cursing quietly as his mobile refused to pick up any service. Not surprising – although there were plans in place to make all the tubes accessible to cellular signals before the Winter Games, they were not yet a reality, and his phone stared back at him, showing no bars whatsoever. Around him in the sparsely populated car, people were trying to make calls anyway, as if hope could replace actual phone signals.

He glanced up again, able to see outlines of the car in the blue glow of mobile phones. John picked up his shopping bag, putting it on the seat beside him, and stood, making sure to keep a hand on the pole for balance. The sound of people talking and wanting answers was growing louder now, and he could hear a note of panic here and there as the power stubbornly refused to return, leaving them underground in the darkness.

"Everyone stop!" he said, raising his voice, casting it over the mild din, using his army training to get what he wanted. "Stop!"

There were murmurs, which died away almost one at a time, and John waited them out, focusing on his breathing, keeping it steady. He was not above feeling agitated himself, but it wouldn't help, and wouldn't bring back the power they'd so obviously lost.

"Everyone stay where you are," he said, keeping the command in his voice, but softening his tone somewhat. "I'm going to move through the car and count how many people we are, all right?"

"Who put you in charge?" someone demanded. From the sound of it, a young man, probably in his late teens, bristling with indignation to cover the fear.

"I did," John said calmly. "I'm a doctor and I used to be a soldier. I know what I'm doing. Listen, we've lost power, that's all. Not really surprising, given the weather."

As soon as he'd said it, he realized it was true. Rain- and sleet-storms had been hounding the city for the past three days, complimented by the occasional unseasonal thunderstorm, one of which had been flashing through the sky when John had headed for the tube, heading home from work after having picked up some much needed groceries on the way. His trouser cuffs were still wet, and now he was beginning to wish he'd taken a cab instead of his normal tube ride.

"How long will we be stuck down here?" someone muttered.

"Hopefully not long," John said. "But we're all safe, and it's fairly warm, even if we're underground." The heat from the car would dissipate eventually, but they'd have bigger problems if they were stuck down there that long. He wondered how much the Underground system was affected, and how long it would take to get the trains back up and running.

He counted five people in the car to his right and had them follow him back to the middle of the car to take up seats there. There were four more people in the back of the car, for a total of ten, including himself. John herded them up as well, getting them to sit down, then took names and ages.

There was no one younger than sixteen and this was the young man who had challenged him and a friend of his. John was relieved that the friend was female, because she'd already told her mate to hush once, and he was glad not to have to deal with two teenage boys and the testosterone-fuelled resentment of authority they could breed together.

He held up his phone, moving it slowly over each face, finding that some of them were doing to the same to one another and to him.

"My name is John Watson," he told them. "Does anyone have any medical conditions I should know about? Any diabetics? Asthmatics?"

"Yeah," the teenage girl said. "I am. Diabetic, I mean. But I'm cool – I have my insulin and I've eaten."

"All right," John said. "I've got food shopping if you need it. You need to let me know, okay? Don't try and just ignore it. We've already been stuck here almost ten minutes, so whatever's going on, it's probably not going to be a quick fix."

"I will," the girl assured him, and John saw a grin defined by shadows and the pale blue light from his phone. "I'm not a total nutter."

He smiled back.

"Anyone else? I really do need to know," he said.

There was a chorus of murmured 'no's, but one woman volunteered that she had a cold. John laughed, and it sounded strange in the unnatural stillness and darkness.

"I think you'll be all right, but thanks," he said. His eyes picked up the bobbing of a light from outside the train car suddenly and the doors nearest the front were forced open slowly. The torch beam, which seemed too bright and made him wince, cut into the car and someone stepped inside.

"Conductor," a male voice said. "Who's in here?"

"There are ten of us," John replied.

"Come with me," the man said. "Single-file. I'm moving everyone to the front two cars."

"What's going on?" someone asked.

"I don't know," the conductor replied. "Power failure. I can't raise anyone on my radio. Everything's down."

"How far are we from the next station?" John asked.

"Too far to walk us all safely, especially if the power comes back up suddenly. We're staying put until I hear otherwise."

"Um, what about the loo?" someone asked. That was one of the things John had considered would become complicated if they were stuck down there for any length of time.

"There's one in the my control room," the conductor replied and John was surprised, then realized he shouldn't be. It wasn't as though the trains stopped very long at stations. "Come on, one at a time. I'm going to go down first and help you all down. You need to be careful, watch your step. Use your phones as torches if you can."

John had everyone go ahead of him and stepped out last, very carefully, the conductor shining his torch on the steps for him, offering a hand that John didn't need.

"I'm a doctor," he said as he stepped onto the uneven concrete next to the track. It was damp out here, and slightly chilly.

"Good to know," the conductor said. "We have another one up in the front car, so I'll put you in the second car. I've got the doors unlocked between cars, so people can move back and forth, but only if there's more of an emergency, or they need the loo. Everyone stay where you are, I'm going to move past all of you and lead the way."

The other passengers shifted slightly as the conductor passed by them and then followed slowly until they reached the second car.

"Ten more people," he announced. "And this is Doctor –"

"Watson."

"Doctor Watson. He's in charge in this car, so please listen to him. I'm going to shift the rest of the passengers. If I get any news whatsoever, I'll let you know."

John wondered how this would be possible if the radios were down and there was no phone reception, but understood it was said in part to make people feel better. He set himself up acquainting himself with his new carmates as the conductor step out again, his torchlight bobbing gently in the darkness along side the train.


	2. Chapter 2

_Where are you? SH._

Sherlock put the phone down and pulled the milk out of the fridge, sniffing it carefully, then eyeing the sell-by date, sniffing it again and deciding it was fine. He shut off the kettle and pulled out two mugs, out of habit, then scowled at the second one.

It was irritating that John wasn't home yet. Of course, it was always irritating when John wasn't home. Even when Sherlock was working and needed to concentrate, it was annoying if John wasn't there. And he wasn't working right now, and was growing bored. There were a lot of things he wanted to do with John at the moment, especially since the terrible weather outside had kept him mostly cooped up, and he'd resorted to watching crap daytime telly with Mrs. Hudson most of the day. He wanted John to come home, so they could enjoy a cup of tea together, then a good shag. Then perhaps some dinner. Then more shagging.

He fixed his tea to his liking and briefly considered hiding the tea sugar tin just to see what John would do if the tables were turned. But no, he preferred it when John hid it on him. Sherlock smiled slightly; the little game, that had started out as a misunderstanding and an empty sugar tin, had taken on a life of its own, and once John had found a hiding place so good it had taken Sherlock the better part of a day to track it down.

At one point, he'd put his foot down about the tin leaving the flat, saying Mrs. Hudson's flat was off-limits since he couldn't necessarily get in there without breaking in, which might upset her. It wouldn't do to upset Mrs. Hudson, at least not too much. She did, after all, control their rent.

He picked up his phone, frowning at it.

_John, where are you? SH._

Sherlock went back into the livingroom, mug in one hand, phone in the other, and cast about for something to do. He was tired of watching telly, since he'd done so for a good chunk of the day, and he'd given up on the book of John's he'd been trying to read. Sherlock set his phone and the tea down and stood in front of the bookshelf, trying to settle on something else, but nothing really held his interest. John had any number of bad novels, which he was always trying to impress on Sherlock. There were some ways in which Sherlock doubted John's taste. Not when it came to men, of course.

Particularly since Sherlock was the only man John found attractive, and Sherlock knew it.

He selected one of his old favourites, which he wouldn't mind rereading, and settled down, then realized John hadn't replied.

This probably meant he was in the tube, which was annoying. When were they actually going to get that blasted network set up and running? He disliked that he was out of contact with John at any point.

He unlocked the phone and rang John's number. The voicemail picked up immediately.

"You have reached John Watson…" Sherlock scowled at the bland message recorded in John's voice, then tapped his foot absently, waiting for the beep.

"John, it's Sherlock. Where are you? You're running late. I need you to call me."

He rung off, then set the phone aside, picking up his tea and sipping it.

Two minutes later, he hadn't heard back, so he tried again. He got John's voicemail once more.

"John, it's me again. Return your ruddy calls."

Sherlock put the phone aside and forced himself to read, but the more time that slipped past, the more the uneasy feeling in his stomach pushed out at him and his eyes skittered over the words on the page, his mind waiting instead for the familiar ring of his phone or the sound of the key in the front door.

Ten minutes crawled past and Sherlock tried again.

"You have reached John Watson…"

"Blast, John, answer your bloody phone!" Sherlock snapped into the voicemail silence. "Where are you? Pick up!" He waited, as though this would magically solve the problem, then rung off before trying again, getting the same result.

_John, pick up your phone! SH._

No reply.

Sherlock growled, in part to cover his unease. He stood, book forgotten, and paced back and forth, glaring at his phone as though this could somehow alert John into noticing and answering.

He chewed on his lower lip and tried John's number again, getting the same result. Sherlock stopped pacing and closed his eyes, arguing with himself, telling himself not to worry. John was probably on the tube, probably delayed because of the weather, probably out of cellular signal range.

Probably not wearing a semtex vest somewhere.

He snapped his eyes open, swallowing on a gasp, then clattered down the stairs, knocking on Mrs. Hudson's door. She opened it after a moment and seemed surprised to see him.

"I need to use your phone," he said, brushing past her without waiting for an invitation, finding her telephone, an old landline style, and ringing John's number. Perhaps it was _his_ cellular service that was not working properly.

"You have reached John Watson…"

"Blast!" Sherlock snarled, hanging up, raking his hands through his hair. Mrs. Hudson was watching him with no small amount of concern.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I can't reach John," Sherlock said shortly and she looked alarmed for a moment, then glanced toward the window.

"I'm sure he's just delayed, dear," she told him. "The weather's frightful. You know how the tubes are."

Sherlock nodded mechanically. _He's fine_, he told himself. _He's fine, he's fine. It's just the weather._

_I don't believe you_, another part of his brain chimed. _Shut up, shut up, shut up. Mycroft!_

He pulled out his phone again quickly, then paused, because even now, this was distasteful. His brother would be pleased that Sherlock had asked for his help, and gloat in that quiet, superior and not-at-all-gloating way he had when Sherlock needed something. His thumb hovered over the phone's screen, over Mycroft's number, and he stared at the call icon, uncertain.

_For John?_ he asked himself. Memories of John in the semtex vest replayed themselves and Sherlock felt himself shudder. He bit his lip, a final moment of indecisiveness, then hit the call icon before he could change his mind, because nothing outweighed John, no amount of self-satisfaction from Mycroft would matter if John were in trouble and he hesitated.

He breezed out of Mrs. Hudson's flat as the call rang on the other end, leaving her confused behind him, and took the stairs to his own flat three at a time. He was just shutting the door when someone answered.

"My brother. Now," Sherlock snapped.

There was a moment of silence, in which he could hear some shuffling. The tone changed as the phone was passed off and Mycroft came on the line.

"Sherlock?" he asked. "Not particularly a good time."

"John. Where's John?" Sherlock interjected, not caring about the timing, not caring about the interruption.

There was a pause.

"I don't have him with me, if that's what you're asking. Why?"

"I can't reach him," Sherlock snapped, feeling a low tremor in his stomach. He leaned against the door, staring unseeingly at the flat. It felt too large and empty all of a sudden, without John's presence.

"He's probably stuck on the tube," Mycroft said.

"He should be off the tube by now," Sherlock retorted. As though he didn't know John's schedule. As though he didn't pay attention. As though he weren't aware of where his partner was at all times.

Not right now, he realized. He had no idea.

"Sherlock, have you checked the news at all?"

Sherlock frowned, a quick, fleeting expression, eyes narrowing at a brother whom he couldn't see.

"What's that got to do with anything?" he asked, but there was suddenly a feeling like lead in his stomach and he went cold, crossing the flat in two long strides, grabbing the remote and turning the telly on, finding BBC One.

_He's fine, he's fine, he's fine_, he repeated, like a mantra.

"About half the central system went down thirty minutes ago," Mycroft said. "And a number of the lines further north."

Sherlock heard this with half an ear, the other part of his brain registering the newscaster's explanation.

"… reports of power failures in large portions of the tube system, particularly in the Victoria, Westminster, Soho and Bloomsbury areas in central London, as well as lines running through South Tottenham and Finsbury Park. The cause of the power outages is currently unknown, but there are unverified reports of disruptions in key transfer stations across the city. This is coupled with loss of power for residences in the South Tottenham and Finsbury Park areas, as well as regions in central London. Currently, it is unknown how many passengers are stuck on the trains, nor how many trains are aff – "

Sherlock nearly cursed out loud when the flat when dark, the telly shutting off abruptly, along with the lights, plunging him into blackness, leaving only the tiny glow from his phone to illuminate the empty-feeling flat.

"Mycroft, John is down there," Sherlock said with certainty.

"There are thousands of people down there, Sherlock, and large parts of the city without power."

"I know, I've just lost mine," Sherlock replied, but this was incidental, secondary. John was trapped in the tubes, and with the storms, it was uncertain at best when the power would be restored. "It doesn't matter. _John_ is trapped down there."

There was a pause, then a sigh.

"Yes, and what would you like me to do about it?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it, glaring, as though Mycroft could see this – he could probably sense it, at least – then put it back, trying to hold down on a snarl.

"Find him!" he snapped. "Do _not_ tell me that you can't, Mycroft! With all of the resources your command, you can find a man on a train!"

"In the dark, underground, without knowing what train he was on?" Mycroft enquired.

"You know what line, and you can narrow down which train based on the time and the schedules. I can give you John's usual travel schedule! You've still got power, because you'll have back up systems and back ups to those back ups."

"And you want me to pull people off other things, off dealing with all of this, to search the tubes?"

"_Yes_," Sherlock snarled. "What is this isn't the weather? What if this is staged?"

"You think it's Moriarty? Not really his style, is it? Nothing's blown up."

_But John, John is down there. And hundreds, thousands of other people._

_People died. That's what people DO!_

Sherlock shuddered the memory away and glanced across his darkened flat toward the windows. Outside, it was eerily, unnaturally dark and he found himself crossing the floor, avoiding obstacles from memory, to peer outside. The street was lit with headlights, phones and torches, but nothing else. No street lamps, no lights from other flats in the area, no signs, no traffic lights.

_Not today_, he thought. Even if it was the weather, not today. Not John. Not ever.

"Send a car," he said to his brother. "Get your people down there. You want to be concerned about me and brotherly? Then find John, Mycroft. Get your people down there and find John."


	3. Chapter 3

John had given up his scarf to a young woman who was without one. He regretted it vaguely – not because he was cold, but because it had been one of the very first gifts Sherlock had given him after they'd become partners. A year ago now, he realized with a rueful smile, pulling out his phone to check the time again. Almost to the day. Six days, to be fair. He should plan something, he thought, then almost laughed at himself for thinking that in this situation. Not much he could do down here.

An hour had trickled away and he tried not to check his phone too often to conserve its battery power and his sanity. It occurred to him that even if the power came back on, they probably couldn't just pull into the nearest station, because who knew how many trains were ahead of them, already stopped at stations, how many people were trapped like they were, pinned by the whims of the winter weather? He'd heard predictions for a severe winter and it seemed it hit early. It was only the end of October – Halloween was tomorrow and John hoped they wouldn't be stuck down here that long.

_Maybe I'll just live down here, settle in, retire_, he thought with a dry smile, looking around the darkened car. The conductor had filtered everyone into the front three cars so that they were close together and could build on each other's body heat. He'd met the doctor in the first car and there was a nurse stationed in the car behind him. It made him feel better, knowing they were there, that any medical emergency had other competent hands to help him cope.

The conductor had showed them how to open the doors between the cars when necessary, but they were to keep them shut otherwise, to retain what heat they had left. So far, no one was complaining, but John could feel the boredom beginning to settle in, and he wasn't immune to fantasizing about just rounding up the whole group and walking to the nearest station.

Which could get them all killed if the power came back on unexpectedly and the trains started moving again.

So they sat in the mobile dead zone and John hoped Sherlock wasn't worrying too much – if he'd even noticed. He was probably at home and working if they still had power on the surface, or complaining to Mrs. Hudson of boredom if the power had gone out. Or maybe Lestrade had recruited him into the rescue effort. The police would more than have their hands full even if just this one area was down, given the number of lines that ran along the same tracks and the number of riders at this time of day.

He checked on the diabetic girl, Tasha, and she assured him she was fine, but John gave her the bottle of apple juice he'd bought, just for good measure. She was entertaining a five-year-old girl with a game involving who could make up the most outrageous story, and her male friend was sitting with them, not exactly participating, but when John shone his phone at the young man's face, he was at least smiling and not complaining. Here and there, strangers were in conversations about work or family, and more than one person was showing photos of children or nieces and nephews or exotic vacations. Anything to eat up the time. A couple of people had stretched out on the bench seats and were napping in the absence of anything else to do.

John enlisted the help of the woman to whom he'd lent the scarf in sorting through what food they had. It was going on dinner hour and people would be getting hungry soon. He checked in with the other doctor and the nurse and told him about this and they got on board with the idea, and everyone in each car had soon pooled whatever food they had together. It wasn't much but there were a few people like him, who had stopped for groceries on the way from work, and, although it wouldn't make meals that fit together well, they could at least all have something small to eat. John wanted to wait as long as possible though – no telling how long they'd be down there.

He paused in sorting through the food in their car with Jess, the woman who had borrowed his scarf. John sat on one of the seats, pulling out his phone again, feeling a pang of loneliness that had crept up suddenly. Someone – the mother of the five year old – was talking to another woman about her husband. He pulled up a picture of Sherlock playing the violin, a smile on his face, his eyes closed in concentration.

"Who's that?" Jess asked.

"Oh," John said, slightly surprised she had looked, but then realized that in the darkness, the picture would be more visible, a small speck of light encompassing them. "My partner."

"Work or life?" she asked.

"Both, actually," John said with a smile. She grinned back, her expression just visible in the darkness.

"What's his name?"

"Sherlock."

"That's unusual."

"He's an unusual man," he replied as he clicked out of the photo application and turned the phone back into their torch.

"How long have you been together?" she asked. John realized that he hadn't actually gotten into one of these conversations yet, having been slightly removed from it all to deal with running the car. Like the mayor of a tube car, he thought with a smile to himself. _Mayor John, I like that. Time for a career change?_

"Almost a year. Next week."

She grinned again.

"Brilliant. Getting married?"

John was brought up short – somehow, he hadn't really thought about that yet. There were days when it seemed like they'd just become partners, everything new with the shine still not worn off, but other times when it seemed like they'd been together forever and everything was comfortable and familiar and didn't need to change.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I suppose it's possible. What about you?"

"Oh," she said, flashing him another grin. "No, not right now. I'm solidly single. I'm studying law."

"Really?" he asked.

"Yes, almost finished," she said. "June. But who's counting? Then – we'll see."

"Good for you," John said. "An attorney, that's impressive."

"Says the doctor," she snorted.

"Well, it's still impressive," John said. "All right, I think we've just about finished. Shall we see about food allergies?"

Jess pushed herself to her feet, visible only as moving shadows and angles.

"Absolutely," she agreed, pulling out her own phone and lighting it up, adding to the tiny and faint illuminations that lit the car that had become their temporary home.


	4. Chapter 4

Rain pounded against the roof of the car, sending a steady stream of rivulets down the windows, tiny droplets which would have been caught in the street lights, if any had been on. The drumming was steady and insistent, and water was pooling on the streets, but there were people everywhere, almost revelling in the darkness, in the novelty of it.

Sherlock was seated across from Anthea, who annoyed him, but at least she annoyed him without requiring much attention. She was glued to her mobile as always, and Sherlock wondered what was so bloody interesting all of the time. She had an alert expression on her face, but not the kind that indicated she was paying attention to her surroundings. The kind that indicated she was absorbed in whatever was happening on her phone's screen.

Mycroft was sitting beside her, a radio on the seat beside him, his hands wrapped around the handle of his folded umbrella. It was useless in this weather, but Sherlock rarely saw his brother without it, and somehow, Mycroft would probably manage to stay dry even if he got out in the torrential rain. He could probably make some arrangement with the weather about that.

Sherlock himself had got more than a little wet just ducking from the flat to the car and now there were drops dripping uncomfortably down his neck. He ignored them, because it was not relevant and it would not help find John. He worked at keeping himself composed, despite the fear that threatened in his mind, the fidgety feeling that came from not being in control, not knowing where John was. His mind wound through kilometres of tube tunnels, picturing stranded trains in the darkness, calling to John in each one, getting no reply because it was only his own thoughts he was chasing.

"Well?" he snapped at Mycroft. The car had taken too long to get there, and he'd had to deal with Mrs. Hudson, who was upset at the lack of power and Sherlock's own jumpy anxieties about John. He felt it had been too much to contend with; he wasn't used to dealing with this kind of apprehension.

Mycroft sighed at him.

"Sherlock, it takes time to get people down there, even in the best of weather. We're working as fast as we can, but you'll have to be patient."

"Patient?" Sherlock growled. He could feel his gloved hands itching to curl into fists, his shoulders tensing, his stomach tightening. The sounds of people outside seemed almost mocking. There was a ringing shout of laughter and Sherlock wanted to open the door and yell at the perpetrator to stop. John was down there. Somewhere, beneath the streets, John was trapped and he had no idea, _no idea_, if John was all right, or injured, or even alive.

"You need to send me down," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Absolutely not," Mycroft replied forcefully as the car pulled into the street, driving carefully through the deep puddles. Outside, it was darker than Sherlock had ever known for the city, an unnatural city night. This must be what John was experiencing, this crushing darkness, this isolation.

He drew a deep breath, trying to find his balance, his centre.

The problem with that was that didn't know where his balance and centre were. They lay outside his body. They were John.

"I have highly trained search-and-rescue people working on this, Sherlock," Mycroft said, holding up a hand to forestall the argument which Sherlock was about to launch. "They know what they're doing, and they're moving as quickly as they can on such short notice. Given the information you've provided me, I believe I've narrowed down where John should be – but if he was early or late, then we'll have to expand our search. But we _will_ find him. If he's down there, we will find him. You have to understand that the police and fire departments are evacuating what trains they can that are trapped at or near stations. Even once power is restored, this is going to take several hours, at best."

"Then get the power back up now," Sherlock growled.

"We're working on that. All efforts are focused on this area, to the exclusion of the others – and believe me when I say that has ruffled more than a few feathers. I've been accused of some favouritism, which is of course the case."

Sherlock dismissed this; it didn't matter. He didn't care if the lights came back on in their flat or in the neighbourhood, nor how long it took the other tube lines to regain power. It only mattered that John be found, that John get out, that John be safe.

He dug his fingers into his thighs and waited, staring out the window into the darkness.

"Where are we going?" it finally occurred to him to ask.

"The station closest to where John should be, if he's travelling on the schedule you gave us," Mycroft replied. "If you're right, he should be fairly close to Tottenham Court Road."

Sherlock nodded, an agitated movement, and peered out into the darkness again. It no longer seemed to matter that he was asking his brother for help. All that mattered was John; he could feel it with every breath, every heartbeat.

If Moriarty was behind this, the man was going to pay. If he thought Sherlock would stop when John was threatened, he was going to learn. If he thought he could menace Sherlock with burning his heart out, then he was going to be shown exactly what fire could do.

If it was just the weather, just the storm – that would almost be worse. He couldn't fight this. Although he could rail against it, it served no purpose. The only reply to that was the steady drumming of the rain against the car and the hiss of the tires through the puddles.

Despite all of the power outages, there were still cars everywhere, the cabs threatening to try and drive as though conditions were normal, other drivers responding either by becoming more reckless or overly cautious. They were passed several times by screaming police cars and ambulances, and Sherlock caught his breath each time.

They crept along slowly, too slowly, making Sherlock want to twitch. The cackle of radio at Mycroft's side made him jump and he saw his brother eye him sharply before picking up the radio.

"All teams report in," came a voice across the distance and Sherlock focused hard on the radio in Mycroft's hand, as though he could will whoever Mycroft had working for him into speeding up, into giving him the news he wanted.

Five teams reported in that they were underground and getting under way. Mycroft acknowledged this and Sherlock watched him reply with hunger in his eyes, wanting to take the radio and demand an update that couldn't exist yet.

_He's fine, he's fine, he's fine_, he told himself over and over, trying to convince himself through repetition in the absence of actual facts.

He had to be fine. They had to find him. The idea that he wasn't was too intolerable to think, too vast to comprehend, too dark to face. Sherlock closed his eyes against it, not caring that Mycroft was watching him.

He couldn't conceive of life without John. Because there was _no_ life without John.

_He's fine, he's fine, he's fine_, he repeated, the thought echoing with each heartbeat. He wished he could believe himself.

The trip took over twice as long as it should have. Sherlock watching the radio with sharp grey eyes, but it remained resolutely silent. At one point, he closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest, willing himself into stillness through an effort unlike anything he'd ever known.

When they reached the Tottenham Court Road Station, there were already police patrol cars there blocking the entrances, and officers in the pouring rain, trying to maintain some kind of order. There was a small but growing crowd gathered, people milling about, uncertain and wet and tired and angry.

Sherlock reached for the door and found it locked. He rounded his gaze on Mycroft, who met his grey eyes with unnecessary equanimity given the situation.

"Those are people off the trains that were at the station or almost there," he said. "John's not with them. We'd have heard by now if he was. I have the police at the nearby stations checking all of the passengers they recover."

"Let me out," Sherlock demanded.

"To do what, Sherlock? Charge down there? It won't help and you're liable to get hurt, especially if the power comes back on. They _will_ call us when they find John, and if he's not at this station you need to be here so we can meet him. What will you do? Stand in the rain? What will that accomplish? We're getting all the information as it becomes available right here. Out there," he nodded to the sodden crowd in the near darkness outside, faces light up momentarily by the flash of blue-and-red emergency lights, "you know nothing."

He paused, evaluating his younger brother thoughtfully for a moment and Sherlock glowered under the gaze with its familiar confinement and condescension. Mycroft had him pinned, exercising his power as his big brother. It chafed and Sherlock resisted it, because it didn't matter. Not this time. Not when John was down there.

He turned away, gazing out the window into the darkness punctuated by police lights, and, in the absence of any other choice, waited.


	5. Chapter 5

Tempers were beginning to wear thin now and John counselled patience, but the stranded passengers were getting tired of sitting, tired of the darkness, tired of the uncertainty. He felt it grinding at him as well, and entertained fairly consistent fantasies about being at home, safe and warm in the flat, with Sherlock. He wanted to curl up on the couch with his partner, watch some mindless telly, have a good hot meal of cheap Chinese food, play with Sherlock's dark curls, nuzzle his neck, kiss his warm lips.

_Well, at least I'll have something for my blog,_ he told himself, giving a slight smile.

Although John had waited as long as possible, after almost an hour and a half had elapsed and people were beginning to grumble, he and Jess had passed out the food in their car. It wasn't much, and it wasn't particularly appealing – being an odd assortment of whatever anyone had on them that was immediately edible – but it would get them through a little while longer.

He wondered how long this loss of power would hold out, how long they'd be down here, if the whole night would slip away. Water would become a problem eventually, and if this went on too long, more people would need to sleep. They may have to spread themselves back across more of the cars, which would mean less body heat per car and which would make it more difficult to keep an eye on everyone.

He hoped that the police were already coming for them, winding their way through the maze of tunnels with torches and radios and water and a way out. John considered asking the conductor about access tunnels, but if they were locked, there was no reason the conductor could unlock them.

It was strange to think that Afghanistan had prepared him for this; he'd imagined that he'd need to fall back on his training in London. Underground in the darkness, it felt a world away from the hot, bright, hazy summers in Afghanistan, where the sun had baked his skin, baked the whole world. He thought of friends still over then, then thought of Sherlock again, and felt lonely in the crowded car.

A small group nearby was playing a game on a phone and there were groans when good move was made by other players and small exclamations of triumph when a game was won. There were still people chatting and reading, and the woman with the five-year-old was walking her daughter slowly up and down the aisle, the girl drowsing on her shoulder.

John moved past her carefully, making his rounds. He made sure to check Tasha's pupils and evaluate her colouring, insofar as he could from the light of his own phone, but she was all right, still bright eyed and smiling, even though John could see she was getting bored and her smile was somewhat strained from the waiting.

He understood that.

The other passengers assured him they were fine, with varying degrees of irritation in their voices. They chafed at the waiting, and John did to. He missed the fresh air – but it was not much better outside in the tunnel, damp and cold. At least in here, they were all warm. At the back of the car, a few people were doing stretches, using the bars for balance, and he joined them, his muscles beginning to ache with the inactivity. He needed to keep his shoulder from starting to hurt, because once that settled in, his temper would ebb away and it would take more than he had down here to deal with it.

He wished he were carrying some ibuprofen at least, then realized he could just ask around, and left the people who were stretching to do so. A woman who was reading volunteered some and asked if everything was all right.

"Yes," John said. "I have an old shoulder injury that's bothering me. This will do the trick."

It wasn't entirely true; when the weather was bad, ibuprofen helped take the edge off the worst of the aches, but the best thing he'd found for it was Sherlock. The man had a hitherto unknown talent for massage, which he'd impressed upon John that this was _not_ to be share with anyone. John didn't mind, because if no one else knew, no one else could try and avail themselves of it.

Shagging also worked – it was usually more than distracting enough, and John had only had to turn his partner down a handful of times when the ache really was too settled into his muscles for anything to divert him or feel pleasurable. In those cases, the best thing was Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, gripping it just short of the point of pain, as he'd done their very first night together.

The memory of that made John smile now and he settled down, pulling his phone out and opening his photos, scanning through them, lingering on his favourites of Sherlock, who smiled back at him from captured moments. John wished that his phone would light up with bars to make a call, but it stayed resolutely silent, just at the power remained resolutely turned off.

"Everything okay?" Jess asked, standing in front of him, a darker patch in the darkness. John wondered what she looked like beyond the blue glow of the phone that showed him her features in only vague detail. She had a nice voice, he thought. And long, curly hair – he could see that well enough in the dim light from his phone. It made him think of Sherlock's hair, and his fingers missed the ability to run through those thick curls, to watch Sherlock's face as he did so.

"Yeah, just feeling sorry for myself," John replied.

She gave a chuckle and sank down beside him, moving so that he thought her legs were stretched in front of her.

"I think we all deserve a bit of that right now," she commented. "I actually had the night off for once and I was going–" She cut herself off, moving to sit up fully and John tried to see her in the near darkness, and it seemed she was looking past him, out of the car. "What's that?"

He looked up himself and heard shouts suddenly and people were getting up, pressing themselves against the windows on the right side of the car, exclaiming as the bobbing of torchlight came closer. John rose as well, half disbelieving, his eyes narrowing somewhat against the unfamiliar glare. He saw one of the dots of light peel away, toward the first car, then the door of their car was forced open and there was a someone on the stairs, shining the torch into their car. People were murmuring, shielding their eyes, and John saw them now as silhouettes against the unaccustomed brightness.

"John Watson?" a woman's voice asked. "Doctor John Watson?"

He blinked, staring, and felt rather than saw Jess looking over at him, her surprise an echo of his own.

"Doctor John Watson?" the woman repeated. "Anyone here by that name?"

"Yes, that's me," he heard himself replying and the torch beam focused on him, making him wince.

"John Watson of two-twenty-one Baker Street?"

"Yes," he replied, nodding in the beam of light. He could see the woman moving her other arm, raising it to the level of her face. "Got him," she said and John realized she must be speaking into a radio. She moved through the train, the other passengers stepping back, as though she were some sort of prophet.

The torch light was tilted down a bit, enough so she could see him without blinding him.

"You all right, Doctor?" she asked.

"Fine," John replied, still stunned. She nodded once, curtly, and John could see the reflection of a high visibility vest on her chest, and the outline of a hard hat on her head.

"All right, listen to me, everyone," she said, turning slightly to encompass the car. "We're evacuating this train. I want you all to follow me in single file. There are five of us in this group, and four of us will be walking with you, one in front, one at the back, two in the middle of the group. We'll be leaving the conductor behind with the fifth member to move the train when the power comes back up. I need you all to keep up with us, and walk where we walk. You'll be safe if you do as we tell you, and don't walk on the tracks. Understood?"

There were murmurs of assent and John felt that he and the other passengers would have promised to tap dance and learn a foreign language in five minutes had they been asked at this point. He could see more torch lights beside the train now, and passengers from the first car were disembarking, waiting along side the tracks.

The woman moved back through the car, gesturing for John to follow.

"Everyone get out carefully," she said, lighting the way for them, watching intently as John stepped down. When he'd done so, she raised her radio again. "We're on our way out, coming up at Holborn."

John waited for an explanation that didn't come as the woman refocused on ensuring everyone was doing as they were told, and then they were leaving the train after almost three hours, following the bobbing torch lights of their rescuers augmented by the pale blue glow of phones in the darkness of the tunnel.


	6. Chapter 6

"Got him," a male voice said over the radio and Sherlock managed to restrain himself from leaping at to answer it. Mycroft gave him a warning look and picked it up, but was forestalled. "Negative, negative. It's another Doctor John Watson."

He could only stare in disbelief, the raindrops hammering on the roof as if laughing at him.

"Please clarify," Mycroft said.

"Cambridge professor," was the answer. "Same name."

"Evacuate that train," Mycroft ordered and Sherlock couldn't contain a growl, causing Mycroft's eyes to flash to him, bright in the near darkness.

They were still parked outside Tottenham, still bathed in the blues and reds of the police sirens as emergency crews tried to round up those being evacuated out of the tube. People were milling about despite the driving rain, and some had taken just to walking, moving past their car as dark shadows.

"Check the name against the address, two-twenty-one Baker Street," Mycroft ordered before setting the radio aside again and arching an eyebrow at his brother. "Those people still need to get out of the tunnels, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed on his protests but growled again, making Anthea look up for the first time since he'd gotten in the car, and possibly for the first time that week.

He wanted to say they weren't important, they didn't matter, because they weren't John. _Ha_, he snapped silently with grim displeasure. It was a John Watson, just the wrong one. _Leave him there, find the right one, _Sherlock thought, catching his lower lip between his teeth.

He could feel his heart hammering after the adrenaline rush of false hope, as though trying to escape the cage created by his ribs. Sherlock closed his eyes again, leaning his head back, ignoring the steady look Mycroft was giving him.

He'd seen the doubt there, as if Mycroft had not, all this time, truly believed that Sherlock loved John. As though he thought it were a passing phase, or perhaps not real. As if he'd grow bored and drift away, or John would get fed up and leave, or they'd end in a row and anger and silence and loneliness.

And what did Mycroft have, Sherlock asked himself. On what was he basing his erroneous conclusions? How did he think he could understand what Sherlock felt about John? It was impossible to imagine that he could, that this really made sense to Mycroft – and perhaps that was the reason behind the doubts.

He was not giving John up. Not to Mycroft, not to Moriarty, not to the darkness, not to the loss of power, not to anything.

_Never again_, he promised himself, promised John. _Never again, John._

"Got him," a woman's voice cut through the silence that was punctuated only by Anthea's endless texting. Sherlock snapped his eyes back open, raising his head quickly, fixing on the radio. He caught his breath, barely noticing, and there was a long, drawn out pause in which he willed the woman to speak again, to give him for information. Mycroft was watching the radio and even Anthea had paused, her attention almost diverted to the events around her.

The minutes stretched endlessly, even though Sherlock knew they couldn't really be very long, nowhere near the time he'd already waited, then her voice came over the radio again.

"We're on our way out, coming up at Holborn."

Sherlock met Mycroft's eyes urgently.

"Go," he insisted, but the car was already in motion, edging through the crowded streets and the persistent darkness and the ceaseless rain.

* * *

><p>The lights came back on right before they reached the station, sudden and unexpected after the hours of darkness, and everyone stopped, blinking and shouting, their exclamations mixed curses and praises. John shielded his eyes with his hands, blinking hard until his pupils contracted somewhat, his eyes getting used to the abrupt return of the light.<p>

The station was just ahead, but their rescuers in their visibility vests and orange hard hats kept their torches on, the extra light skittering over the path they were taking beside the rails. John could see a rickety service staircase leading up to the edge of the platform, barred from normal access by a fence and a gate.

And he could see his fellow passengers suddenly, as real people, not as shadows and angles of features cast in blue light. There was Jess, who was a few years older than he'd pegged her, with curly red hair and green eyes that met his in the sudden light. There was Tasha, with a lip ring and streaks of bright red and vivid blue in her brown hair. There was Tasha's friend, Mike, with dyed black hair, in a faded black trench coat. There was the woman with the five-year-old whose glossy dark curls that spilled over her mother's shoulder as she slept.

There were smiles and greetings and John felt as though he were saying hello to old friends he hadn't seen in so long he'd forgotten what they looked like.

"Everyone keep moving!" a voice from behind them called and they shuffled forward again, with more certainty this time. The search-and-rescue woman who had identified him was right in front of him, Jess right behind him.

"Tell me why they were looking for you," Jess said and John glanced over his shoulder, now that he could see her and do this without tripping.

"No idea," he said honestly, although he had his suspicions.

Then they were climbing the stairs onto the platform next to an empty and abandoned train.

"Come on, everyone, up to the surface," the man at the front said, gesturing them to follow him to the escalator, which wasn't running despite the restored power. "We'll get you all home, but you will need to come with me."

John followed, Jess falling into step beside him, giving him a smile and an arched eyebrow. John wanted to give her some explanation in return, but he couldn't. He really didn't know, not for sure, how Sherlock had managed this.

As they went up, the lights didn't fade although could hear thunder still rumbling in the distance. And rain. As they approached the street level, he could hear the steady downpour of rain, feel the chill against his skin, the dampness that wound its way past his clothing. He had abandoned his umbrella in the train car, along with what had been left of the groceries, but he didn't care.

They emerged into chaos: rain, bodies, police cars, emergency lights, honking horns, voices. John wished now he hadn't left his umbrella, but it would have been useless in the downpour anyway, and there were too many people about to use it safely. He felt caught in the flood of voices and bodies, the crowd coming as a shock after so long with the same smaller group of tube passengers, and the sensation left him feeling oddly startled. Jess was still standing next to him, trying vainly to shield her head with the scarf he'd lent her, then seemed to realize it was not hers and passed back. It was already wet and John bundled it into a pocket rather than put it on, although it wouldn't have mattered much. His hair was already soaking and he could feel cold droplets running down the back of his neck under his collar.

"That's why we were looking for you," the search-and-rescue woman next to him said, nodding through the crowd. John followed her gaze, suddenly picking up Sherlock standing amidst a press of people, sodden, his dark curls plastered to his pale forehead and cheeks. John blinked, almost certain it was an illusion, because Sherlock hadn't seen him yet. "Also the reason the lights back on here, because everywhere that lost power is still without it."

"What?" he heard Jess ask, but Sherlock met his eyes in that moment and John forgot about her, forgot about the rescue workers, forgot about the crowd when he saw the expression on his partner's face.

Disbelief warred with relief and, for a moment, Sherlock looked paler than normal, his grey eyes suddenly bright in the light from the street lamps. John shook his head once, and began pushing through the crowd, ignoring the mutters around him as he did so, not really watching where he was going. Sherlock was headed for him as well, face set in an expression of determination, rain streaming down his cheeks, dripping from the ends of his hair.

John ignored the cold, the rain, and the sounds around him, nearly stumbling into a suddenly open space, and then Sherlock was in front of him.

"How–" he started but was unable to finish when Sherlock grabbed him, pulling him into a kiss, making John gasp for breath. Sherlock pulled away long enough for both of them to suck in air and then angled in again, John's face caught between his hands, wet lips sliding over his, closing the space so tightly that even the rain could not break through.

He tried to think, tried to understand – then thought he saw Mycroft in the crowd behind him and it made sense in a flash. Another flash, this one of disbelief, because that meant Sherlock had asked Mycroft for help.

Sherlock _never_ asked Mycroft for help.

Sherlock let him take another breath then kissed him again, heedless of the crowds that surrounded them, of any kind of ideas of restraint, and John felt his shock ebbing away slightly under the sensation. He made a small sound when Sherlock nipped his bottom lip and his hands found Sherlock's waist, settling onto the small of his back, pulling him closer.

And he remembered how Sherlock had described himself the first time they'd met, as a high functioning sociopath.

John had believed it, then.

But Sherlock had sent people into the darkness, into the tunnels, for John.

He had gone to his brother for help, for John.

All around them, there was light, emergency vehicle lights and headlights and torches. And street lamps and traffic signals and signs.

Sherlock had lit up London again, for John.

He raised his hands, fisting them into Sherlock's sopping hair, pulling him even closer. It felt like coming home, and he couldn't imagine living without it.

Things would have to change, he realized. It had been almost a year. There were things he could no longer take for granted. Partners wouldn't quite be enough anymore, John decided as he gripped Sherlock's wet curls, breaking apart for a moment for another gasp of air.

It was time to start calling him family.


End file.
